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Tabitha walked ahead of us, the way she always had in the old days, but the old meaning had drained out of the motion. Once, when she moved first, it had been because she was smaller and safer to throw into the path of a master’s mood. Once, when she lowered her eyes, it had been because eyes were property too, and slaves learned to keep their gaze as hidden as their names. That morning she still moved with the quiet grace of a weaver, her hands instinctively folded at her waist, yet she did not look like a girl bracing for a blow. She looked like someone walking toward a promise.
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